Monsieur Hugo was already 77 years old, an absolutely advanced age for that era.
In June of last year, he suffered a minor stroke.
Although he had mostly recovered, he rarely went out or received guests anymore.
His main energy was currently focused on the creation of the final volume of his last important work, The Legend of the Ages.
This monumental work of human social history, written in poetic language, spanned the latter half of his life—the first volume was published in 1859, and the second in 1877.
So, after receiving Professor Taine's letter, he initially intended to write a politely worded reply declining the invitation.
However, a single sentence from Taine moved the literary giant, who was held in the highest regard by the French people:
[The Sorbonne cannot lose youth, vitality, and justice, just as France cannot lose Victor Hugo!
Your presence will be a tremendous encouragement and comfort to these young people, and it will surely allow the French people to witness your greatness once again!]
He recalled his own experience studying at the Faculty of Law—although he wasn't particularly interested in law, merely accepting his father's arrangement, the daily interactions with his young classmates, the clash of ideas, and sincere exchanges, had become unforgettable memories for life.
Though Hugo's reputation grew in his later years, he often fell into the loneliness common to the elderly.
Especially after the Paris Commune in 1871, Hugo, sympathizing with the Communards, repeatedly called on the government to pardon and release them, and even appealed to foreign governments to offer them asylum, which resulted in unrest.
One evening, a mob of about 50 people attempted to force their way into Hugo's home, shouting:
"Kill Hugo! Hang Hugo! Kill the villain!"
Although this violent act was unsuccessful, it greatly struck Hugo's spirit, making him realize the treachery of human nature and how unreliable so-called "reputation" could be.
He felt he was merely living as a rather prominent signboard.
After much hesitation, he found paper and pen and wrote his reply:
[Dear Taine,
Thank you for your warmth, may you remain in good health...
Please forgive my inability to attend the 'Poetry Gathering.'
My old, ailing body can no longer dance with beautiful ladies at such a grand event.
But I still have the energy to look at the works of the Sorbonne students...]
After finishing the reply, Hugo felt a wave of weakness again.
Looking at the night sky, thick as ink, outside his window, he rang the bell, called his servant, and was attended to for sleep.
...
The next morning, Lionel woke up promptly at the eighth chime of the church bells.
Opening the door, he already saw Petty waiting for him, a basin of clean water at her feet.
Since the attic was too small for Petty to rest, she had recently been sleeping at her parents' home on the second floor.
Seeing Lionel, Petty gave a brilliant smile:
"Good morning, Young Master Sorel."
Having eaten a good amount of beef and chicken with Lionel these past few days, Petty's complexion was no longer pale but showed two faint rosy cheeks.
Lionel carried the basin into the room, then closed the door on Petty, took off his coat, and began to wash and clean himself.
The icy cold water instantly sharpened his mind from a hazy state—having lived in this era for over a month, he had gradually adapted to the custom of washing everything with cold water.
It wasn't entirely due to poverty, unable to afford hot water, but rather, washing and cleaning with cold water was considered an important method for maintaining health in this era.
In the early 19th century, people generally believed that diseases existed in the form of gases, which could enter the body through pores and nostrils, causing illness.
Cold water sponging was thought to constrict pores, blocking the entry of "sick air."
Although after Pasteur discovered the existence of bacteria and other microorganisms, "pore phobia" turned into "germ phobia," and the middle and upper classes initiated a "disinfection craze," with every household proud of the pervasive smell of limewater, the habit of using cold water was generally retained.
However, Lionel was determined that if he really got rich by writing novels and could afford a grand villa like Flaubert, Zola, or Maupassant, he would definitely live a life of hot baths...
After washing, Lionel, preparing to leave, gave Petty two tasks and two francs:
To buy food for the two of them today and to stew it according to the method he had taught her earlier.
He would come home for lunch and dinner.
To transcribe his manuscript of The Old Guard left on the desk.
If she encountered any unfamiliar words, she could consult the dictionary nearby—he had taught her basic spelling and how to use a dictionary last year.
Petty was very clever and learned quite well; if she hadn't been constantly interrupted by her mother to do chores, she might have been able to write letters on her own this year.
Watching Petty nod emphatically, Lionel felt somewhat relieved, patted her head, and hurried downstairs and out the door.
The Sorbonne courses were as boring as ever, with professors repeating theories and works from 100 or even 300 years ago, as conservative as zombies resurrected from the Middle Ages.
Professor Hippolyte Taine, though old-fashioned, was so modern compared to them that he was like a rock musician—if there was such a thing as rock music in this era.
Bored out of his mind, Lionel hid in a back corner of the classroom, continuing to work on The Old Guard in his notebook.
Well, writing The Decadent City in class was still too risky after all—
[They said behind his back that the old guard was indeed an old grenadier who had followed His Majesty the Emperor, distinguishing himself in battles at Austerlitz and Jena.
But after Waterloo, King Louis XVIII issued an order, and these elites of the Emperor were disbanded.
Some were sent back to their hometowns, while more were shadowed by secret police, unable to find decent work.
Thus, they became poorer and poorer, almost begging for food.
Fortunately, his marksmanship was exceptionally accurate; he sometimes hunted or drove away wolves for others in exchange for bread.
Alas, he had one bad habit: he loved to drink.
As soon as he got a few coins, he would head straight to the tavern, get dead drunk, and often mess things up.
After several such incidents, no one asked for his help anymore.
The old guard had no choice but to occasionally resort to petty theft.
Yet, in our shop, his conduct was better than anyone else's; he never defaulted.
Though sometimes he had no ready cash and it was temporarily noted on the blackboard, he would surely settle it within a month, and his name would be erased from the blackboard.]
As Lionel was writing, not even getting up during the break, the paper suddenly darkened.
Someone was standing at his desk, blocking the light.
He looked up.
It was Albert de Rohan, leading his gang of cronies, who had surrounded the row of seats where he was sitting.
Lionel frowned.
After the incident in the principal's office, Albert hadn't bothered him for a long time.
Was he reverting to his old ways today?
Before he could speak, Albert spoke first:
"Lionel, do you have any other plans this weekend?"
Lionel thought to himself, of course he did.
He had just received 1500 francs in cash and a 1500-franc money order from Garibuel as an advance for "An Honest Parisian."
This weekend, he was planning to look at houses and move as soon as suitable.
But Albert's tone didn't sound like a provocation, so he asked,
"Why, is something up?"
Albert hesitated for a moment, then stated his purpose:
"This weekend, we're going on an adventure to the 'Empire of Death.'
Do you want to come along?"
Lionel paused.
"Empire of Death" was a line inscribed on the lintel at the entrance of the famous catacombs of Paris, and it was also its common name.
In this vast underground tunnel network, 6 million skeletons from the 18th century onward were buried.
It was currently managed by the church and had always been considered a forbidden place, with many supernatural legends.
As he hesitated, he clearly saw a sneering smile slowly creep onto Albert's lips.
(End of Chapter)
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